


Gotta Get You Out Of My Head

by DoctorFitzy (KittooningMalijah)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon compliant-ish, Gen, Insanity, M/M, Post-3x10, it's canon compliant to an extent, let's just call it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittooningMalijah/pseuds/DoctorFitzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything that happened on the planet, Fitz wasn't quite sure of how he felt. And you know what they say about old habits...</p><p>[ a series of interconnected drabbles ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He'd Been Gone For A While

          Fitz had taken to keeping his door locked when he wasn’t needed anywhere, and his time in the lab or around the rest of the team at all had been extremely limited for weeks. Not even Jemma had been let into his room since he’d come back through the portal again. He didn’t need conversation, and especially not with anyone who would defend the things he’d witnessed – which meant talking to anyone on the team wasn’t an option. Instead, he spoke to someone who hadn’t been a part of the team for a long time.

          It had started out simply enough – the occasional mumble aimed at no one in particular in the lab or while he was wandering the base, a scoff at whatever comment his mind came up with, maybe he would roll his eyes if it was something particularly imbecilic. He’d never intended for it to get out of hand again, and he had it completely under control – except for when he didn’t.

          The instance had started just like all the others. His words were mumbled and then muffled further by the silent air around him, a mess of papers fluttering over his desk with each deep breath he took to try to keep his head clear. It didn’t help much, but at least it kept the voice quiet for a little while.

          “ _What time is it?_ ”

          Fitz let out an audible groan at the question, flipping over the paper he’d been _trying_ to sketch a new idea on. **(** somehow, it had turned into another drawing of the same, eternally blue landscape as the last five **)**. Instead of being productive away from the distractions of the lab, he was being unproductive because of the distraction in his own head, and it wouldn’t _stop_. “You know where the clock is. Check for yourself.”

          There was a moment of peace and he almost thought he would be free for the rest of the night, and then. “ _I only know it if you do._ ”

          He groaned again before spinning the chair just enough to look at the clock by his bed across the room. Ignoring the figure perched on the edge of the mattress, he let out a sigh when the bright, red numbers registered. Two in the morning. And here, he’d thought it was still the middle of the afternoon, but he supposed _talking to himself_ instead of actually working made time pass faster.

          “ _You should probably get some rest_.”

          “Shut up.”

          Without hesitation, he turned around again to try to get back to work, starting a new sketch of the project he was supposed to be working on. If his head really wanted him to get some rest, it would use someone he might actually listen to instead of someone he’d ignore out of spite. Maybe, if he was able to ignore the pestering voice, he could actually get some work done before passing out.

          Of course, he wasn’t even lucky enough to avoid it for a few minutes, not that he was surprised. His former friend had been haunting him for weeks, and he’d yet to find a way to actually make him _be quiet_ , no matter how much effort he put into the task. “ _You haven’t been taking care of yourself_.”

          It occurred to him that the voice in his head was right, that he really should be sleeping more than an hour or two a night, and eating more than only a few small snacks during the day, but that would mean actually taking attention away from work. Work was the only thing that kept him distracted enough to block out everything else – the voice, the guilt it brought with it, the weight on his shoulders – and Fitz made a point to focus for at least twelve hours a day just for the relief that came with it.

          “ _Fitz, you’re not going to be able to solve the world’s problems while dead on your feet._ ”

          He _knew_  that it was impossible, but he could almost feel the air move while the figure moved from the bed to stand behind him. _Air couldn’t move around something nonexistent._ Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on something else, and then that _damn_  voice was trying to get his attention again.

          “ _Fitz-_ ”

          “Don’t say another word.” His voice grew louder while he got to his feet, stomping over to the bed to lay down. It might not work, but he could try to hope that listening to the voice would make it be quiet. “Look, I’m going to bed now. Are you happy?”

          “ _No, I’m not happy. I’m dead, remember?_ ”

          The words were a harsh reminder of the very thing he’d been trying to block out. All over again, he could see the blue desert, the light from a burning corpse, two people locked in a fight too far away from him to actually do anything – every time he blinked, it was the same scene, playing over and over. He wasn’t stupid, he knew he couldn’t change it, but the nightmares still happened, and he still always tried, only to wake up to the reality of a new voice in his head. When Fitz lifted his head to respond, he stopped before even opening his mouth while staring at the empty room.

          He’d been gone for a while, but maybe, at least long enough to let him sleep, Grant Ward would finally leave him alone.


	2. You Don't Have To Save Everyone

          He’d locked himself in his room again, though he’d lost track of how many nights in a row he’d done it. There was a routine to it now, and if he stuck to that, blocking out the voice that still pestered him was much easier during the day. Of course, that meant indulging it as soon as the sun went down.

          Fitz had thought that the night of peace the first time he’d listened to that voice in the back of his head, he would be free from the added guilt that came along whenever he heard even a single word. It was torture in the best way, and if he couldn’t find a good reason to try any harder to make the conversations stop, even if they were technically one sided.

          He would sound completely insane if he tried to explain it to anyone, he knew that much from experience, and something told him that imagining _Ward_ everywhere would bring about a very different reaction than when he’d been imagining _Jemma_  talking to him when she was undercover. Whether he told anyone didn’t matter, anyway, not when he would have continued on with the charade of being okay even after a confession like that. History tended to repeat itself that way.

          On this night in particular, Fitz wasn’t sitting at his desk, pretending to focus on work to avoid conversation for as long as possible. His shoes had been discarded by the door, and he was otherwise still dressed even while spreading on his bed and staring off into space. The mattress didn’t sink with any added weight, and the blanket didn’t go taut under him, and the pillow didn’t compress with the hand that rests on top of it, and that’s how he knows his nightly routine has really started.

          “ _You’re in bed early_.”

          His hallucination wasn’t wrong – it was barely nine o’clock, and he was showing no signs of moving to go back across the room any time soon. The day had been long, and tedious, and filled with busywork instead of anything that actually demanded his full attention, and he’d had far too much time to get lost in his own head. More so than he did when he got caught up in these conversations. “I am. I kind of just want to talk to you for a little while.”

          The request was a strange one, and it didn’t take Fitz imagining the strange expression on Ward’s face for him to know that. Normally, he was still trying to block him out at this point in the night, even if he’d resigned himself to actually having a conversation at some point, but actually _asking_  for that conversation to start early was almost grounds for concern, and his subconscious was quick to pick up on it.

          “ _Maybe Simmons should check you again for a head injury._ ”

          Hearing his own words from a lifetime ago echoed back to him, in the same half-joking and half-worried tone, actually brought a small smile to his face. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but it definitely made the conversation easier – as if that was actually a good thing when the conversation was technically with _himself_. “Or I was just thinking a lot today and wanted to tell you something. You don’t have to be so concerned.”

          “ _You’re literally imagining this entire conversation, I’m not the one concerned_.”

          Fitz rolled his eyes while moving to lay on his side with a small frown. “ _Or_ , we could ignore that elephant in the room and just let me say my piece.” He got comfortable, keeping his head turned so that he could face the imaginary figure that came along with the impossible to avoid voice in his head. “I’m sorry. I should have turned around faster, or tried to run up instead of just yelling, or–”

          “ _Wait, Fitz, what are you talking about?_ ”

          They were both quiet for a long moment before the engineer took a slow, calculated breath, making himself speak again, though now his voice was almost a whisper, barely audible even in the otherwise silent room. “I could have saved you. You could still be alive.”

          The silence stretched out again, as if he could possibly be _thinking_ about a possible response and not just waiting for Fitz’s own mind to give the cue to speak. It was nerve-racking – he wasn’t used to having to wait for his mind to come up with something, at least not since his brain had started _cooperating_ again and giving him words when he actually needed them instead of five minutes later. Finally, when he actually got a reply, it wasn’t one he was expecting.

          “ _You don’t have to save everyone._ ”

          Letting out a slow breath, he rolled onto his back again and exhaled his next lungful of air with a huff. Of course, leave it to this conversation of all of them to have no comforting resolution.

          “You’re useless.”

          “ _You’re literally calling the voice in **your head**  useless. Let’s take a moment to reflect on that, shall we?_”

          Without thinking, Fitz grabbed the pillow under his own head and rolled over quickly, intending for his weight and the soft cushion to come down directly where the placeholder for the voice in his head had been seated. Only, when he landed there, the blanket under him was cool, and the space was empty.


	3. We Could Do It Together

          The amount of time he spent locked away in his bedroom should likely have been worrying to those around him, but Fitz was fully aware that no one on the base actually paid attention to what he did anymore. He’d kept to himself far too often, and rarely spoke to anyone outside of his own head, and when he did, he was cold, and harsh, and kept his distance. It was easier that way – it meant he couldn’t lose anyone else.

          He could spend hours at a time in silence, and then argue for just as long with that nonexistent figure that still plagued him. It was ironic, almost. When he’d needed him, Ward chose the other side of the fight. Now, when he most needed to be left alone, he couldn’t get rid of him. It made for long nights, and longer days, and too much internal conflict for him to handle on his own, not that he didn’t try.

          “ _It’s almost four in the morning_.”

          All Fitz had done was glance at the clock, but that was all it took for the voice in his head to know just which button to push, just which line to use to get on his already fraying nerves. It was something he expected by then, something he was more than used to, and it was almost _soothing_ , in a way. It meant he still knew himself.

          His head may be rebelling against him, but he wasn’t stupid. He was fully aware that the voice in his head was just that – _a voice_  – and that it was his own mind coming up with the words, recreating them and spitting them out of a face that he’d never listen to in a million years, but at least the face his mind chose made an impact. Hearing something resembling _concern_  coming from _Grant Ward_  still caught him off guard, still made him think of how things were before, still made him miss everything they used to be.

          “ _You should probably get some sleep_.”

          “Make me.”

          It occurred to him, just for a moment, that he shouldn’t do or say anything too rude, considering he was talking to _himself_ , but it was too late to take it back. Besides, he didn’t exactly _regret it_. After the pod, with all that had happened to his brain, he’d gotten looks aimed at him that hurt worse than any words could – the _pity_ , the _sympathy_ , the same things he saw on the rare occasion when he left his room. He knew they were all _aware_  of how he was acting, and he didn’t blame them for keeping just as much distance as he did, but would it really hurt anyone to treat him like a normal person? The only person who did that anymore was the voice of a traitor that his own mind refused to let go of.

          When the hallucination took the challenge, nothing actually changed, but just his imagination pointing out the hand on his shoulder was enough to make the Scot sit up straighter. He was on high alert immediately, ready to react to any kind of change, even when the voice sounded again, low enough to be considered a whisper, right by his ear.

          “ _I can’t make you do anything. You have to do it yourself._ ” It wasn’t wrong, he’d give it that, but it didn’t stop there. Of course it didn’t. Why would it? He wasn’t going to interrupt it. “ _Not just because I’m not real, either. You wouldn’t even listen to me if I was really here, would you?_ ” He wouldn’t, that much was right, too, but he kept his mouth shut. “ _When’s the last time you actually left this room? Are you taking care of yourself? When is the last time you ate? Or slept for more than two hours? Or talked to Simmons about anything at all?_ ”

          Fitz knew all of those answers almost immediately – he’d eaten the day before, gotten a full night’s sleep when he’d passed out at his desk from exhaustion only a week ago, and talked to Jemma while explaining what had happened on the planet and what he’d done. Well, that was the last time _he’d_  said anything to _her_. She still tried to clear the air between them, every time he was out of his room for more than five minutes, no matter how blatantly he ignored her.

          Still, he pushed himself away from his desk with a sigh. He could use some sleep in an actual bed, for once, and maybe he could block out the voice for a few hours to get it. Of course, as soon as he sat down on the mattress, he knew that wouldn’t necessarily be possible. The voice cared more than any one on the base with him, not that he’d ever say as much to anyone, and the voice already knew.

          “ _Things could be different, you know. I could have killed Coulson instead of Rosalind -- I’d probably be alive right now if that’s what I’d done. I still could, technically. I could hang out in your dreams, play out some what-ifs, maybe it’ll help you sleep._ ”

          Lifting his head to look up at the hallucination of the man in front of him, Fitz took a moment to think over what he wanted to say. He _could_  dream up a better reality, but it wasn’t really enough to just kill off some imaginary version of Coulson. If he was going to dream up a better reality, it was going to be completely different from the world he was forced to live in. “If that’s what you did, you’d be going after him all alone. Last time you fought with him one-on-one, you ended up _dead_. I remember that.”

          He fell quiet again for a long moment, dropping his eyes to the floor with a frown. No matter what had happened in the past, he refused to sit back and watch anyone else die -- he was sick and tired of not being able to protect the people around him, and that left only one option.

          “Maybe, if you come back, we could do it together.”


	4. his little monkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even after a year, the hurt doesn't really stop hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "you were his little monkey" + FitzWard
> 
> prompt is from the title of a _Damages_ episode

          It had been more than a year since he'd been to that planet, been to the other side of the universe, been trapped in the middle of a midnight landscape for twelve hours on a mission that ended in him witnessing the death of someone he'd considered a friend. Their relationship hadn't been quite so civil during the last few years, but that didn't stop the ache from lingering in his chest long after anyone else even considered mourning the man they all hated. And they had every right to hate him, really, to hate his choices, what he did to them... but there were still hours, days, weeks of time when Fitz couldn't make himself feel anything but empty.

          After Jemma was finally able to drag him out of his bunk for more than half an hour for the first time in months, he'd accidentally let it slip that he'd been talking to himself **(** again, not that he'd ever told anyone about the last time it had happened **)**. That had led to her asking May to contact her ex-husband, and then a session every other week where he was made to recount how many conversations he'd had with the traitor who still lived in his head, and what those conversations were about. There was a whole two week period where he was under constant surveillance after he'd confessed that he was furious after watching what Coulson had done, where more than a handful of the people on the base were worried that he might snap and become violent. He was afraid of himself, thinking about all that he could do if he really set his mind to it, thinking about the times he'd sat in his bunk talking to himself and wishing he'd had the guts to act on those urges instead of sitting by and watching things unfold like a coward.

          Everyone thought he was getting better, after that, but, really, all that had changed was that he'd learned when to keep his mouth shut. He'd learned that telling the whole truth got him into trouble, that people would still give him cold looks if it even looked like he _might_  step out of line. So, he went back to shutting down outside of his sessions with Andrew, went back to not speaking to anyone except the voice in his head that refused to leave him alone.

          " _You're allowed to miss me, you know. The real me. Him._ "

          They were the first words he'd actually heard from anyone in almost two days, and there was a nudge at the back of his mind that told him it was a red flag. After it had been pointed out to him by the man who had been living on the base just to be his therapist that the depression triggered in part by Ward's betrayal had gotten worse after his death, he'd been trying to combat that ache that never went away. He tried to be more social than before, tried to worm his way back into his old friends' lives, but they all looked at him differently. Whether it was because of his hallucinations or the fact that so much had changed in the time he'd shut himself away, he didn't care, because it didn't change the facts. They still didn't seem to trust him, didn't seem to _want_ to let him back in, so he didn't push them.

          "No, I'm not." The way everyone else acted, Fitz wasn't allowed to feel at all. He wasn't allowed to be upset that he'd watched someone die, that he'd once cared about that man like a brother, that he'd been grieving since the moment the pod dropped from the plane. It didn't matter to them that he was hurting, so what was the point in hurting at all? It only gave him trouble. "Grant Ward was a traitor and a monster and a terrible excuse for a human being. Everyone else saw it - I was just too naive to believe it. I watched him get what he deserved and I still don't believe it. That's on me."

          There was quiet for a moment, and then he heard an imaginary sigh from the other side of the room, instinctively lifting his head from his work to look over when he heard that same old voice he always did. " _But you're not a terrible excuse for a human being. Everyone can see that. Even he saw that. You're too good for all of this - that's why he tried to protect you from getting hurt_."

          "He wasn't trying to _protect_  me, he threw me in the damn _ocean_." He knew he'd lost it if even his own head was trying to rationalize that argument he'd heard in the basement cell so long ago. Maybe they did have more of a chance escaping the ocean than a bullet, but that didn't _mean_  anything, not really  **(** but the pod was supposed to float, and he'd spent hours on the ocean floor trying to figure out why it didn't and had never come up with a logical conclusion **)**. If Grant Ward was trying to save their lives, he could have done something better and stopped everything before it got that far. "It doesn't matter what he was trying to do. He _did_  hurt me - he hurt _all of us._  He never cared, no matter how much I wanted him to."

          " _Didn't he_?"

          Those words made the Scotsman pause, dropping his eyes back to the surface of his desk while he frowned at the paper there and tried to find something to distract himself with, not that he was very successful. The only thing that worked to distract him anymore was the voice in his head that he'd been trying to shut up for almost fourteen months.

          " _You saw me better than anyone did. You saw him when no one else even tried to look. He cared, and you called him out on it. You saw it, Fitz, you were right there. Everyone on the team meant something to him. Coulson should have been a father figure to more than just Daisy. May was supposed to be enough to protect everyone if the worst happened. Jemma was kind of that younger sister figure who could be grating but he loved anyway, and you..._ "

          He got to his feet quickly, taking advantage of the short pause to cut off the voice that he just wanted to _be quiet_. All he wanted anymore was a _break_ , and it seemed the universe was hellbent on making sure he never got one again. Between everyone looking at him like he couldn't be trusted and his own head refusing to let him rest, he was more than just a little tired of the reality he was forced to live in. "What? What the hell was I to him that made me so _disposable_  that I could be tossed from a plane and he didn't bat a damn eye?"

          The look of pity that he hid out in his room to _avoid_  was the only thing he could process while the silence dragged on, and he gave a small shake of his head without quite meeting the nonexistent gaze. If even his own mind was feeling bad for him, was looking at him like he needed sympathy instead of to be talked to like a human being who could handle emotions without breaking, then there really was no recovering from this the way he'd wanted to, and he especially wouldn't be capable of doing so alone. He wanted a nap more than ever, especially with the weight that the voice's next words carried - in that weight was too many memories, too many feelings, too much grief he'd never been able to push away enough to _breathe,_ and it had been years since he'd even made any effort to try.

          " _You were his little monkey._ "


End file.
